Get What You Deserve
by qichis
Summary: "I am going to do to you," he says through the haze of frustration, "what Arthur should have done a long time ago." Francis raises his arm high and brings his hand down with a loud smack, then once, twice more before Alfred even has a chance to catch his breath. 2P, spanking


Francis is already sprawled out on the couch in the living room, pillow pressed over his face to block out light and sound; there is little else he can do to block out Alfred's incessant whiny chattering—he rolls over, smashing the pillow back down on the other side, just to prove a point. It does nothing, of course. He does if Alfred has even noticed.

"It's ridiculous!" Alfred's voice cuts through his hearing; he has a headache, and it blooms painfully at the sharp sound. "I just—they can't _do_ this to me, there's three freezers dedicated to fucking ice cream!"

"_Alfred_!"

The supermarket has stopped stocking as many healthy ingredients. That is what Francis knows, and he knew it _twenty goddamned minutes ago_.

Alfred continues on, endlessly, nonetheless, cursing alternately the market's management, misunderstanding of vegan diets, and the entire rest of the population of the world. He continues… colorfully. _Loudly_. And with lots of words like "fuck," "fucking," and "fuckers," to the degree that Francis—isn't sure what's owed to the swear jar, but is fairly certain it could afford them an entire week's worth of groceries for this stupid four-person relationship.

(He regrets the wording immediately; it stabs coldly at his heart, making him guilty for even thinking it, 'stupid,' when this is the greatest thing he's known—)

But Francis's head _hurts_ and it's _loud_ and Alfred won't _shut up_.

There's finally a blessed silence and Francis… doesn't know why, really, would be worried if he weren't already so irritated (it's been a long, long day and he just wants to rest). It's Arthur, this time, who cuts into the silence: "stop that, Alfred, just. Stop. It's one market! There's others. Goodness, I'm disappointed in you, talking like that," blah blah _something_. Francis has tuned him out. As best he can, anyway.

Arthur's voice is reduced to a vaguely familiar-sounding drone until it slowly recedes; Francis thinks he hears a door clicking shut, and then…

And then his pillow is gone.

"Francis?" Alfred peers down at him, tentative and wide-eyed, and it'd be endearingly sweet any time other than now. "You don't think it's fair, right?! I know you were listening, you always do! Can you believe that, I mean, shit—"

He sits up—bursts up, really, all in one motion throwing the pillow to the floor and tugging Alfred by the collar _very very close_ to his face. "_I_," he spits, "_am tired_."

Alfred seems immediately scared; he's stepped on a trapdoor without realizing, found himself falling through thin air with no help (but they've played like this before, with ropes and handcuffs and biting words, and he knows what to do if he wants the ground back under his feet where it belongs).

There's no irritating babble, no rant barked into his ears, so Francis assumes the right to speak. "You're being an absolute brat and I'm sick of Arthur not doing anything about it. He's weak on you."

Francis smiles when Alfred swallows, scared.

"I am going to do to you," he says through the haze of frustration, "what Arthur should have done a long time ago."

He waits a second, of course, just in case Alfred really minds, really in the no-stop-this-isn't-fun kind of way. Alfred whines, back low in his throat, and Francis knows then that Alfred doesn't mind at all. He pulls him by the shirt collar, nearly tearing its cheap fabric, closer, then shoves out so Alfred falls sprawling onto his lap.

Francis raises his arm high and brings his hand down with a loud smack, then once, twice more before Alfred even has a chance to catch his breath.

His head still aches, but it's—well, not a lesser pain, but a manageable, ignorable pain, as soon as Francis looks down to see the way Alfred is staring up at him. So _trusting_, so… starstruck, almost.

And all this with Alfred's jeans still on.

It takes a bit of maneuvering to rectify that—the pants getting in the way—but soon Alfred's stretched out stomach-down across his lap again, squirming and whining. Francis spanks him again and again, only pausing between to relish both the sound of smacked flesh and Alfred's moans, which get louder and louder with every blow.

And… Francis, by now, doesn't mind the constant thin pain in his head, knowing it hardly measures up to how Alfred's ass must sting. And yet Alfred is hard; he feels it against his leg.

Or at least, Alfred is hard right up until he isn't.

With a sudden arch, after one strike among many Alfred cries out and nearly twitches into humping Francis's leg. Francis feels and recognizes what must be dripping down his lap and onto the upholstery, but at least it was always Arthur who cared about keeping the furniture clean, and he doesn't need to know… not when it's so, _so_ worth it to see Alfred shaking with orgasm.

To know he did that, to know he took Alfred from annoying whiny brat to this, is a strong and heady emotion: something like pride, like love. Somewhere between.

Perhaps, Francis lets himself think—perhaps both.


End file.
